Letters for Sherlock
by Spark Writer
Summary: Devastated by Sherlock's death, John composes a string of letters never intended to reach the detective, in which he spills his feelings. Review! Post-Reichenbach.
1. First Letter

**Hello! This is John's first letter to Sherlock, post-fall. **

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Dear Sherlock,

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

I shouldn't be sitting here in an empty room in an empty flat—in _our _empty flat—writing a letter that will never reach you. You're supposed to be here, now, scorning my blog posts, pestering me to buy milk…arrogantly flipping your coat collar. God, I miss that.

There are so many things I don't understand. And because you're dead in the ground, I never will. But you're not a fake. I can't say why I know that, but I do. I believe in Sherlock Holmes, I believe in you, and the entire world knows that—knows where I stand.

Still, everything, _everything _is wrong. It's like waking up on the opposite side of the earth. Everything's screwed up, and unbalanced and messy. It's a subtle feeling, but it's there—I feel it, Mrs. Hudson feels it, Greg and Molly feel it. And—though you'd swear to God this isn't true—I think Mycroft feels it. He's slowly, steadily becoming the worst aspect of himself. Bitter, unpleasant and hollow.

Me? I'm headed in the same direction, Sherlock, destined to be a beaten skeleton of a defeated soldier.

Thanks to you.

There are moments when I'm seriously certain I hear your foot falls on the stair. When I visit your grave and am convinced I see a tall shadow hovering beside a tree. And I think, 'there it goes again, my bloody messed up mind.' As you said, during that final phone call, it's just a trick. Just a magic trick. I only hear things, see shadows, because sometimes I so desperately miss you that my heart literally collapses on itself.

So, yeah. This is what you've made me into. Pathetic, isn't it? Lestrade once said that you're a great man, and one day, if we're very lucky, you might even be a good one. Maybe you're not either. Maybe you're just a person, like the rest of us. But, you're not a fake, Sherlock, and you're not a freak. Really, it's impossible for me to say that you belong in heaven or hell or anywhere in between, because you really don't belong anywhere at all.

Still, you belonged with me.

Ever yours,

John

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**...Thoughts?**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	2. Second Letter

Dear Sherlock,

My limp is back. Now I have to stagger around London as if I've just aged thirty years. To distract myself, I tried to sort out some of your science equipment the other day, since the flat's going to the dogs. I stood there and looked at all of it, and my body turned to glass and I couldn't move and…

It's still there. Ah, well. I can survive without a kitchen table. I don't eat much, anyway. Not since you've been—not here.

I wake up at least once each night, and I know I've been crying. I get up and look in the mirror and make sure I'm still all there. Because sometimes it feels like sadness is consuming me, eating me alive. Then I see the wetness in the hair around my temples, where the tears have fallen in my sleep. I'm not depressed, Sherlock, because depression is when a person doesn't feel anything at all. No, I'm grieving.

I feel everything.

A couple of idiots—friends of Lestrade, actually—suggested that I head to the nearest pub and chat up some pretty woman, get my mind off things. I told them to sod off. Then I walked outside into the miserable weather and let the tears come. It was already raining.

After that, I limped home without bothering to hail a cab, and figured I'd order take-out and watch telly. Instead of the phonebook, I found your hat. Instead of my jumper, I came across your blue dressing gown. Instead of the remote, I found your violin bow, arrow-straight and competent as ever. Like you. How am I supposed to move on when pieces of you keep popping up?

It's the little things that make this so awful. Unimportant stuff, like the half-drunk cup of tea sitting at your desk when I finally faced going home that first night. Those are the things that make this horrible _thing _come to life in my chest; hot and twisting. I make it to the loo just in time to vomit, gripping the toilet bowl and trying hard not to think of anything.

Jesus, if anyone were to find these letters, they'd toss me in a psych ward for being mental. How ironic, a _doctor _who cracked up. It's a tall order though, not to lose your mind when your best and possibly only real friend leaves the world. See, a real friend is the one that walks in when everyone else walks out. I haven't got that. If you were still alive, maybe…but then, I wouldn't be writing this, would I? My body refuses to believe my mind. It won't accept the fact that you're dead. So I leave a note for myself every night before going to bed, leave it on my laptop so I'll be sure to see it in the morning.

_Gone. _

As always,

John

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**Please review! I really, really love to know what you think.**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	3. Third Letter

**As the reality of his situation finally hits John, the rage comes pouring out. **

**Side note: Thanks for all your support so far! If you have a request, you need only ask.  
**

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Dear Sherlock,

I'm writing this in a letter so that I don't have to scream it aloud, which is what I feel like doing—what the heck are all these drugs? And why are they in a stuffed in a box of Earl Grey tea bags? Is it because you knew I hated that kind? Now that I think about it, though, the box of tea might be irrelevant to the story. After all, you did place it on the very top shelf of the cupboard. I'm short, I know that! There's no need to draw attention to the fact.

I don't even know the names of some of these bloody drugs! You overdosed once, didn't you? A while back, when we didn't know each other. Why didn't you tell me, Sherlock? Did you pass out somewhere and have to be revived in the A&E? Did Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft find you tripping out somewhere? That would have been a cozy chat.

I think I'll permanently forget about properly cleaning out the flat. Because each time I start, I find things you never told me about, and I see red. I don't get it! I don't get why you always had to be this bloody enigma, never letting anyone in, never explaining, never telling the truth. "Sherlock Holmes, the man born to answer questions!" Well, what does that matter if you wouldn't answer mine?

Why were you so distant?

When did you start smoking?

Why did you jump?

How did it feel to see the cement foundation of London come rushing up to meet your body?

Why did you think I'd believe you when you said you were a fake?

Why did you enjoy standing over a dead body and calculating its cause of death?

Were you ever lonely?

Why did you want a flatmate?

Why did you believe that alone protected you?

How did you manage to work your way into my heart?

Why do I care so much?

I'm going out, now. I need some air more than ever. I don't care where, as long as it's far from here, far from Baker Street, far anything familiar. At least then, I can breathe for half a minute. Forget for a few moments and to hell with reality.

I hate this, Sherlock. I really do.

John

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**Review! It gives you good karma.**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	4. Fourth Letter

Dear Sherlock,

It just occurred to me—I don't have a proper photo of you. How could I not have realized that before? Unless you count all those blasted press photographs. You know, "Hatman and Robin," and all that rubbish. I kept a copy of that paper for no reason in particular. For us to look back at it one day and have a good chuckle, I suppose. Shame.

The image of you is and _always will be_ burned into my retinas, eyes closed, eyes open. There's no need to think I'll forget. For me, that would be like forgetting how to breathe. You, with your cheekbones and grey eyes and loads of dark curls. I remember all of it. Most of the time, though, I coax myself into disremembering. Maybe it's better that there aren't pictures of you scattered around the flat. That would be too difficult, I think.

Yesterday, I was walking past Angelo's—trying very hard to close myself to the memories, when a strain of violin music drifted from the restaurant, and I nearly dropped to the sidewalk right then and there. Time literally stopped, and I stood there, stock still, the eye of a silent storm. Listening.

There aren't many things to remember you by, Sherlock. So thanks for this, for the music. Weird isn't it, to think that there was a last time you played your violin? Weird to think that such a significant occurrence went unnoticed. Gone before anyone got chance to say goodbye.

On a side note, I apologize for verbally abusing you in that last letter. I was a git, and I'm sorry. You were always so carefully guarded, but me—sometimes I lose control. Especially now. And being in a more contrite mood, I've been prone to contemplate our relationship. The good, the bad, the mistakes. I wish we'd taken the time to do more normal things, Sherlock. Like catching a movie, playing more games of Cluedo—you're still mad if you think the victim could have done it—going out for a pint, or taking a walk. I mean, it all seems so mundane when you're in it, but looking at it from this side (wanting what it's not humanly possible for me to have) is so much worse. Seriously, I could write a novel's worth of all the things I wished we'd done. And hadn't done, too. Like the bickering and getting on each other's nerves. Yet even all that would be highly preferable to living like this. Living without you.

I once said to you, "Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time."

What I really meant by that, was this:

"Sherlock, I've been living with you for more than a year now. I let you insult me, I tolerate your mood swings, I clean up your clutter and I buy milk for you, even though you treat me like an idiot half the time. Can't you tell that I love you?"

Your friend,

John

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**Happy Labor Day weekend! I've got a few more of these written; I just haven't posted them yet. Stay tuned, and as always, comment if you enjoy this piece!**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	5. Fifth Letter

**Greetings! I'm so grateful for all your support and reviews! I always appreciate your thoughts.**

**I don't own Sherlock!  
**

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Dear Sherlock,

Sometimes I don't know why I write these letters. You're never going to read them, store them in your mind for further analysis, grace them with a single, sweeping glance of your steely eyes. So why bother? In all honesty, it's for me as well as you. No one living knows about my letters, not Mrs. Hudson, not Mycroft—thank God—not even my therapist. It's our secret.

This is going to sound stupid, but I really, _really _wish you could write back. Or give a sign, anything. Anything at all. I can't go on like this. There are days when I see how easily it would be to echo you. One bullet through my brain is all it would take. That's the thing about friends. You entrust a little piece of your soul to them, and when they die, that little bit dies with them. As for surviving without it—well, could you survive without a heart? No.

And neither can I.

If this is of any importance, Molly's been coming over quite a lot, lately. We're both so lost without you that we formed a sort of bond. A bond over hardship, heartbreak and loss. She was the first person I was really able to talk to after all this. She didn't try to dilute the pain with words of comfort or any of that rubbish. She just looked at me with tears in her eyes and listened to me until my voice gave out. Then we sat there and let our tears dribble onto the sofa, emotionally groping through the blackness for anything to hold onto. Eventually, I gave up on that. Gave in, because there wasn't anything.

Occasionally Mrs. Hudson will wander in when me and Molly—and sometimes Greg—are sniffling in the living room, and we'll all just sit together in this weird, perfect silence. If Mycroft showed up, I swear, it'd be your funeral over again.

None of it, the headstone, the funeral, the hours of standing beside your grave, is really for you. It's all for the living, the left-behind people struggling to survive your absence. I realize we all called you an arrogant know-it-all at least three times a week, but we loved you. Still do. Sadly, always will. The one thing I can say with certainty _is not _for the living, are these letters. They're totally, completely for you, Sherlock.

Off to have a good cry, now.

Best,

John

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**The feels! :')**

**-Spark Writer-  
**

**...Oh-review?  
**


	6. Sixth Letter

**These letters are writing themselves! **

**Thank you all for your tumult of enthusiasm. It makes my day. :P**

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Dear Sherlock,

We're going to do something different today. I just walked over to St. Regents Park, and I want to describe everything going on around us. For you, so can sort of…remember.

Right, well, I'm sitting on this little bench beside a row of half leafed-out trees. It's April, so everything's blooming partway. It's kind of cool when you get used to it. Like a woman half-in and half-out of her dress. God, that's a horrible example (and why am I grinning?)—well, you get my drift. Anyway, there's a pond to my left, and a bunch of primary school kids are taking off their shoes and socks and wading in it. It's driving their parents mad. Oh, now 'little Billy' is getting the death-stare from his mum. You should recognize that. You did perfect it, after all.

Anyway, there are all the usual—what you'd call—_masses_ _of_ _dim_-_witted_ _people. _The giddy, gabbling teenagers with their mobile phones and general lack of clothing, the mums and dads tottering along with little children, a few ancient blokes smoking cigars by the pond…ha— and you said it was impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London.

It's really pretty, here, Sherlock. And calming, as well. I used to wander around here before we met. I'd grab a cup of coffee and limp my way over to an empty bench, just to be a part of things. But let's be real. Even worse than being lonely and alone, is being lonely and _with people. _ That just furthers the sense of isolation. I don't feel too bad, though, at the moment. I just exist, and that's enough for me.

Strange, isn't it, that the world doesn't stop when a person dies? You died and kids played football at the park. You died and toast burnt. You died and a cab got stuck in traffic. None of t stopped, Sherlock. It should have.

You deserved to stop thunder, pull lightening from the sky, freeze the wind as it howled. I know, I'm slipping into my 'frustrated poet' state. I'll shut up, now. So, yeah—if you were to take a quick peek at this part of the park, you'd see an unassuming chap sitting on a bench by the pond, cane by his side, wrinkled paper in his lap. And he'd have this look on his face, not happiness, no—but not sadness, either.

He'd be managing.

As ever,

John

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**You know what to do...xD**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	7. Seventh Letter

Dear Sherlock,

Last night was awful.

I was on my way home on the tube when I overheard a couple of people talking about you. Not just having a little chat, either. They were scoffing, scorning and insulting, saying that they couldn't believe you'd been able to pull off the whole "fake-genius" ruse. When one bloke referred to you as having been an extraordinarily pathetic waste of a human, my left hand went perfectly still. I got out of my seat so fast I'm pretty sure I left skid-marks on a couple of passengers. I leaned toward him, glowering.

"Shut your mouth," I said to him, enunciating each word for emphasis. "Shut up about Sherlock Holmes."

The man looked at me, recoiling a bit from my fury. "So you're one of them, are you? One of the loony, cracked supporters of Sherlock Homes, the _great _detective? You know as well as I do that he was a bloody fake."

I retorted with a dead sort of calmness. "Sherlock was as far from being a fake as a person could get. I _knew_ him. The real him. And I swear to God I'll go to my grave fighting to preserve his legacy."

"You will, will you?" A ghost of a smirk had played at the man's mouth.

"You're damn right."

He actually had the audacity to say: "Well if that's the case…you're screwed."

I'm sorry—but not really—to say that I punched him from here to Sunday. Someone screamed, there was this groan, people shot me hateful looks, and I got off at Baker station, knuckles stinging. I haven't tried to self-medicate since right after Afghanistan, but somehow I wound up in some dumpy bar, drinking my way into a fog of alcohol and numbness. I don't really remember much else, just the bartender telling me to get my duff out of his pub at closing time.

I'm sober now, Sherlock. In too many ways to count. And I think to counteract last night, I should do some good deed. Have tea with Mycroft. Or, I don't know, pop in for a chat with Mrs. Hudson. You know how she was always checking on us? Well, she doesn't really do that anymore. She does check in to see how I'm doing, but more likely because she doesn't want to open the door and see me sprawled on the floor with a gun in my hand and a bullet through my skull. She won't, though. We can't both be the "suicidal type." I hope when I die, it's of old age. Old enough that I've stopped complaining about how old I am and started bragging about it. That, or I'll end up kicking the bucket in some really stupid way. Electrocuting myself when I plug in the toaster, or strangling myself in a too-small jumper. God, am I this messed up, or just grieving? I can't tell the difference.

I thought I was doing better, but then something happens and it all comes rushing back. I'll be okay, though. I always am. Okay, and nothing more.

Hoping I'll be in better sprits next time,

John

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**Hang in there, John! Review?**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	8. Eighth Letter

Dear Sherlock,

Winston Churchill once said, "If you are going through hell, keep going." I think that's a pretty good piece of advice. Bloody annoying, too, but I suppose if what you're going through is inevitable, there really isn't any point in trying to turn back. I'm in this dark tunnel of emotions right now, so I'll continue to head for the light at the end of it. As long as it's not a train.

I was joking, Sherlock, in case you're wondering.

You know what I miss about you? I miss your stare. Not anything to do with the colour of your eyes, or the shape of them or anything like that. No, it was the way you could hold anyone accountable, make a fool out of everyone, know what I was thinking in one sharp glance. And each time I looked into them, I could see myself reflected there, hopeful, irritated and affectionate. I'm going to miss that.

I miss your sense of humour. It was almost unconscious, as though you didn't know you were funny when you were. Was it just me who ever laughed? Is that why always looked so surprised? You said that the opinions of others didn't bother you, but I know different. I know you thought about them, worried over them, wondered why it had to be you. Well, you needn't have listened to them, Sherlock. They're stupid, simple as that. You _are_ a great man. A good man, too, and got so much farther in your short life than they ever will.

Most of all, I miss knowing that I could help you, fix you, solve what was going on. I just wish you had let me in. Talked to me. You'll never know how it felt seeing you fall. I had no control, no solution, no hope. Your death tore a big, ragged hole in my soul that no one else can fill. I mourn you and the person you might have become. There isn't a day that don't I wake up and wonder what trouble you'd be getting into today if you were still alive. A life cut short is a tragedy, putting it kindly.

My therapist wanted to know why I consider you my best friend. I said because we could piss each other off so badly, but in times of need we'd still be there for the other. A "best friend" is really just a different way of saying "real friend." Real friends are hard to come by. And you know you've got one when they aim a gun at your head, say you're their hostage, and you actually _relax._

You were an idiot, a prat, and a git, but I _do_ owe you so much, because you gave me everything I never knew I needed.

Your friend,

John

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**I hope this was a bit less heartbreaking than the last letter...=D As always, thanks for your thoughts and reviews. They mean SO much.**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	9. Ninth Letter

Dear Sherlock,

I'm really glad to have some time to write you. Everything keeps getting in the way—little things that act as glue to our lives: eating, making sure I've got on matching socks, paying the rent, all that stuff. Sure, it's a bit tedious and even boring at times, but I honestly _can't take _any more shock in my life. Jesus, if someone were to so much as throw me a surprise birthday party, I'd probably die of heart failure.

PTSD's been acting up, lately. Though I have less nightmares than I used to, something will trigger a flashback, and I'll be held hostage to a horrible onslaught of feelings—and I'll grip my cane until my knuckles go white. No one ever notices. I've gotten really good at concealing my emotions. Still, there are times when I'm with Lestrade and I think he knows. In the past, I've always turned down his offers to accompany him a few other friends to a bar for the evening, but last week I took him up on the offer. We went to a more upscale bar—no dingy countertops—and I told myself to stop whinging and at least try to have a nice time. As it happened, we walked in, took our seats, and—this is going to sound mental—but there was a man sitting at a table alone, facing away from me and Sherlock! He looked exactly like you! There was this stunning resemblance in the way he hunched his shoulders, the way his hair fell, the way he rolled a pen between long fingers.

I could _not_ look away.

Next to me, Lestrade cracked some corny joke and I didn't laugh. All I wanted was to stare and stare and stare at the back of that bloke's head. To take it in, remember all the things I was beginning to forget. I might have sat there a minute, a day, or my whole life. Sometime later, a waitress asked for my order, and I was forced to return to what my life has become. I resented it with a passion. Because sometimes I get sick. Sick of always sitting in the same room with reality.

Anyway, when the man stood from his seat, my breath froze. God, he was tall, tall like you. And his image was lost in the blur of unshed tears. By the time I'd roughly wiped my eyes on a paper napkin and pulled myself together, he was gone. The memory of him ate at me, sent me into a feverish state of obsession. There is something so powerful and painful about nearly seeing someone out of the grave. It's like life is mocking you with a second chance you know you'll never have. Ah, here's a good example! Picture this: You're asleep, dreaming about something amazing and wonderful and—in the moment—so, so real. Then the alarm clock rings. And you wake up and everything hits you. And you want to sob, aching for what was almost yours.

That's how "seeing you" made me feel.

Always,

John

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**I'm sorry it's been such a while since I've updated. Things are insanely busy this fall, and I'm doing the best I can to stay standing amidst the whirlwind. Thank you for reading. Review?**

**Cheers,  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


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